What Doesn't Kill You
by MAS7108
Summary: ...may still drive you insane. John's daughter takes a job as a corrections officer at Scotland Yard. "Mycroft, is your plan seriously to call me up and be like 'Hey so, forget about the whole stranger/possible homicidal murderer thing and get into this unmarked vehicle, because I have ice cream.' Is that your plan?" "Did it work?"
1. Chapter 1

In my defense, I was late to work because my front porch appeared to have vanished during the night.

"Dad," I said, "where's the porch gone?"

"What? Oh, that." He waved vaguely. "It was starting to rot so I tore it down."

"The porch."

"Yes."

"You decided to just-what, just say to yourself 'D'you know, we weren't using this for anything important, and since I have this hatchet conveniently lying around, well, what else really is there to do?' Was that it?"

"Don't be clever, miss," Dad said primly.

"Why do you have a hatchet just lying around, Dad?"

"Eat your breakfast, Charlotte."

"You're a doctor."

"Charlotte," he warned.

"The last time you tried a home improvement project you fell three stories out of my window."

He destroyed my mother's flowerbeds. And when we took him to casualty, he said "I fell out a window" and the doctor on call said "Mary finally push you?" and laughed himself into an asthma attack. So there is precedent for my skepticism, is what I am trying to tell you.

This story, unfortunately, does not seem to be making much headway with the woman in front of me. "So that," I finished, "is why I was late." She continued to look unimpressed. "I'm sorry, Sally," I said meekly. She narrowed her eyes at me.

"It's Detective Donovan while you're here, Miss Watson. You're at work, remember. Try to be professional." I heard a derisive snicker behind me and, from the look on Sally Donovan's face, don't even have to ask.

"Don't help, please," I said without turning around.

"I wouldn't presume to think you needed any," the person said grandly.

"Please go away," I implored.

"But I wanted to hear how you got out of your house," Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, genius, raging pain in the ass, and my godfather, protested.

"Through the kitchen window."

"Did you need something?" Sally asked tetchily. "This isn't social hour, you know. Watson is here to _work._ At her _job._"

"The kitchen window? Why not the perfectly good back door?" Sherlock asked.

"Because Mum hid the key to that door after the...incident last week," I replied. The incident, of course, being Sherlock sneaking into our house, taking all of Dad's clothes from his closet, and using them to write "YOU ARE A HORRIBLE FRIEND. AND ALSO A MIDGET" on the roof because Dad had thrown away his carton of cigarettes.

"But that was ages ago," he said.

"_As I was saying," _Sally interrupted pointedly. "You'll have a tour of the building before your orientation at 11:00. The Chief of Police-"

"-more commonly known to her, a person who has known him since her birth, as Uncle Greg," Sherlock supplied helpfully, as if Sally is not perfectly aware of this information. "He, by the way, will be late, as his PowerPoint appears to be making him cry. He sends his apologies and gave me money for you to go and get a coffee." I stifled a laugh. Sally looked like she's trying hard not to choke him. "And I'm sure _Detective Donovan_ has a lot to be getting on with, so why don't I give our new corrections officer a tour and let you get back to work?" Sally hesitated, her deep desire to get rid of us at war with wanting to show Sherlock who's in charge.

"Fine," she relented. "You've got your schedule. And Watson?"

"Yes, Sal-ma'am?" I said politely.

"Try not to be late this time."

"Yes ma'am." Sally glared at me. I tried to look as innocent as possible.

"Both of you, just-just go." I followed Sherlock out of the room. I strongly suspect that most of his fondness for me has to do with the fact that I can actually keep up with him when he walks.

"Should we go and see if Uncle Greg needs help with the PowerPoint? I don't need the tour," I pointed out.

"What? Oh, I made that up. You don't have to go to his orientation, I've heard the speech and it's useless, you could swallow Scrabble tiles and vomit something more coherent." Dad once had to give a speech for a medical conference. He read it aloud to us, for practice. Sherlock stood behind him and screamed like a Wookie every time he used a dangling participle. None of us were quite sure how Sherlock even got in our sitting room, in all honesty. "I'll buy you lunch instead."

"…with the money that you took from Greg's wallet," I guessed. Sherlock tried to look indignant at the suggestion. "You are a terrible role model. I can't just skip out on my first day of work, Sherlock."

"You disappoint me," he said sadly.

"I've been unemployed for a year, I'm living at home, and I have no car. I cannot afford to get fired on day one," I said firmly. Seeing his defeated expression, I relented a little. "We _can _get coffee, though, we have enough time for that."

"Fine," he grumbled. "I'm sure I'll forget your birthday at some point and this can be your present."

"You _did _forget my birthday, it was six weeks ago."

"Was it?" he asked, startled. "Twenty-three-"

"Twenty-five."

"-already. I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday."

"You weren't even _here_ the day I was born, you showed up to our house three months later, told Mum she'd got fat, and when Dad said 'We've had a _baby, _you git' you said-"

"I _allegedly _said."

"-you said 'Thank God, John, the cardigans weren't doing a good enough job of convincing people you'd given up on life.'"

"I like you _now_," he said defensively. I rolled my eyes.

"Come on. If we leave now we can stop at St. Bart's and convince Aunty Molly that ghosts are trying to communicate with her through the centrifuge machine again."


	2. Chapter 2

After my rocky start, I was determined that the rest of the day would go better. In my defense once again, this would have been easier if certain people who are named Anderson just didn't exist.

"What's she doing here?" Ah, Anderson. If he has a first name I have no idea what it is, unless 'That Bastard' or 'Shit-for-brains' is what's actually on his birth certificate.

"I'm early," I said, pointing at the clock.

"Early for _what?_" he asked sharply.

"The pig roast, am I in the right room?" I said.

"Charlotte," Greg interjected loudly, "is here for the orientation, Anderson."

"No," Anderson said flatly.

"Anderson," Greg sighed impatiently, "she's-"

"A monster?" Anderson muttered.

"-not our division," Sherlock and I chorused.

"I promise to behave," I said.

"Last time you said that the fire department ended up coming."

"Last time I said that I was six. You really need to get over it," I answered. Greg cleared his throat.

"If you've all _quite _finished."

"We have," I said quickly.

"Good," Greg replied. "Sherlock, please go away and remind me what I pay you for."

"But I wanted to hear your inspiring words of welcome to our newest employees," Sherlock argued. "John says it rhymes."

"It _rhymes?_" I said, intrigued. "I didn't know you wrote poetry."

"Sherlock, _go away._ Charlotte, if you want to be helpful, put one of these folders at each seat." I took the stack from him, waved goodbye to Sherlock, and started passing them out. "I heard you were late this morning."

"I wasn't so much late as…unavoidably detained," I replied.

"By?"

"A long story involving my father and a midlife crisis."

"He didn't try to grow the moustache again, did he?" Greg asked in alarm.

"Oh God no," I shuddered. "Just…no."

"Excuse me?"an uncertain voice broke in. "Are we in the right place?"

"Ah, right-come in, please," Greg said hastily. "I'm Chief Lestrade, and this is Charlotte Watson, one of our new CO's." Too late, I realized that being early did not, in fact, make me look professional, it just made me look like a brown-nosing ass, like that kid who stays in to help the teacher clean the classroom during break time because she has no friends, _not that I would know anything about that. _ "Take your seats and the presentationwill begin momentarily."

"And probably not rhyme," I said helpfully. Everyone stared at me. Probably because they were so grateful. I sat down. I wish I could say that I proceeded to pay attention and take notes on this riveting masterpiece of oratorical genius, but I actually just played myself in Tic-tac-toe. I lost. I tune back in just in time to hear Greg putting us in groups to go over our new hire paperwork and set up our phones and computers. And if you thought I got lucky and _wasn't _in Anderson's group, you haven't been paying attention. I followed the rest of the group over to where Anderson's standing. He can't quite keep himself from glowering at me. One of the other women in the group raised her eyebrows at me.

"You two know each other?" she whispered. I hesitated.

"In a manner of speaking," I said diplomatically.

"Watson, shut up," Anderson snapped.

"Yes sir," I said pleasantly. The remainder of the morning goes by quickly, if uneventfully, and at 12:30 we're dismissed for lunch. The rest of my group invites me to join them, probably because I haven't opened my mouth yet so they don't know any better.

They are about to know better.

"For the _last _time," a familiar voice is bellowing, "_you may not just steal things from crime scenes. _It's indecent."

"It was just a scar, John!" Sherlock protested.

"_You have at least a hundred scarves already. _Your ENTIRE closet was filled with scarves when we lived together. Why do you need a dead man's?" My father, despite having known Sherlock now for over thirty years, has not yet grasped the concept that this kind of logic is just not a thing Sherlock does. With all of their shouting, it's the tall, quiet man beside them who spots me first.

"Charlotte," he said mildly. I stifled a groan as the rest of the group turns its attention from the two grown men shrieking at each other like adolescent girls possessed by demons  
to me.

"Hi, Mycroft," I said. Despite having known him since my infancy, Mycroft Holmes and I have never quite progressed beyond civilized handshakes and intense games of Words With Friends. Honestly, this is how it should be. One day, Dad got unexpectedly called into work, so Mycroft drove me to preschool. (In a Hummer. With three bodyguards). After a few minutes, he glanced up from his text message. "We're just going to make one stop," he said. That stop? Ended up being a rendezvous with an international drug cartel. "You took my firstborn child to fucking-fucking _liaise _with drug smugglers?" Dad was nearly apoplectic. Mycroft just shrugged.

"She's fine, isn't she?" So, you know. That's what we're dealing with here. (And in all fairness, he did buy me ice cream after). Dad and Sherlock stopped shouting. Everyone was quiet. It's very awkward, and I would have the sudden urge to breakdance if that was something I actually had any idea how to do. One of the guys in my group frowned at Sherlock.

"Hey, aren't you the one who told us there'd be a pig roast?" I stared at Sherlock incredulously.

"I thought it was funny," he muttered. One of the other guys raised his hand.

"I'm a vegetarian."

So there you go.


End file.
